


The Red Hourglass

by Mr_Skurleton



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: BDSM, Blood and Gore, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Elves, F/F, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6598354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Skurleton/pseuds/Mr_Skurleton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do I have your permission your grace?" His tone is a purr that brushes like a feather down her spine. It feels as if he is not asking permission but rather if she knows what she has asked for. She articulates the words on a whim, an after thought… a casual joke even and nothing she can do will erase that single act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Hourglass

"You should tie your hair back sometime, it would keep it out of your face." She doesn't know why she says these things, talking when it makes more sense to be silent and pleased. In truth there are many things she doesn't mean to say in times like this, but these moments of honesty are what make these trips worth the gold she pays. Worth the downcast looks she receives from her dour mother and the giggles that echo through the servant's quarters. 'Let them have their words, what understanding can they have? Hags in their nest ruffling feathers with wagging pointless tongues,' her mind assures and a spill of warm whispering in her ear helps cement the notion.

"I can if you would like, but I got the distinct impression you enjoyed playing with it your grace." He is correct and the proof is running through her trembling fingers. Those ivory strands that feel like satin as she tucks them behind his pointed ears and yet still feels them tickle the skin of her cheek. Their voices are hushed and intimate, there is no need for anything beyond a murmur when pressed so tenderly close. Laying tangled and entwined in the way words can never hope to be there is a beauty to it all that she can almost taste. It lingers with her for days after each visit, each night spent beneath these blankets, beneath his lithe form.

But tonight the air suggests tension, a stiffness she can not seem to shake. She stretches in hopes of alleviating it, an arched back pressing their nude torsos into a sensual arc full of taut muscles and playful hands. His touch is torment and titillation, in tune with her body in ways she doesn't always understand but always enjoys. She knows this is because she is not his only patron, not the only one who rakes petite fingernails down the smooth expanse of his stomach. It kills her a little to think of another touching the chest that rises above her in the velvet dark. To think of how many other lips have felt the press of his kiss or suggested he should tie his hair back. The thought brings a narrow frown to her otherwise flush face. As fleeting as that look is it makes him hesitate, uncertainty clouding eyes that put the morning sky to shame.

"Is everything alright?" It is heart breaking to hear the fear in his voice, to feel it edge his words as he bites the corner of his mouth inattentively. It is a habit she's noted before, a mannerism that shows the barest crack in an otherwise perfect mask. It softens the sharpness of his elven face, and makes him look just vulnerable enough to send her pulse fluttering. The look in his eyes is pleading, begging her to delight in his company, to allow him to wash her vexation away in the way she's paid for.

Again she finds her hands lingering in his hair, the mischievous tendrils inviting even as they tangle around the rings on her fingers. "I was thinking, don't worry yourself with it."

He resumes treating her exposed skin to delicate affections, kneading nimble hands over sensitive flesh. Always he does as she pleases, as pliable to her whims as warm clay beneath a sculptor's open palm. Before that had been enough to satisfy her hunger but now she isn't so sure. She wonders why his caress is always gentle, never hungry or wanting. Surely there is passion in him for her? A flame just below the surface of his grey skin? If there is than she has yet to feel its burn and it frustrates her to think of him holding things from her when she gives her all to this primal dance.

Again she frowns and this time it but a lure, to see what lies underneath once more. A sigh rattles from her and it scratches the air with dissatisfaction. "Are you this gentle with your other customers?" The words drip from her mouth like poison from a spider's jaws.

"I am only as you ask me to be your grace. If something different is your desire you need only say so."

Her lips are cruel, her eyes narrowing as she glances down the bridge of her nose at him. She has him where she wants and it thrills her to see it play across his expression. "You say that and yet you are as tame as a kitten. I thought your people were proud, especially the males." She knows her words will bite at him in ways teeth cannot even hope to and it all she can do to keep the grin from her face as he sits up and the covers fall away from them both.

"Are you asking me to be rougher with you your grace?"

She can't tell if he is mocking her by asking or genuinely that dense. She pushes on his chest with an exasperated groan, as she also sits up having half a mind to tell him to forget it and leave her. But as her legs dangle over the side of the bed and her toes kick at the cold stones below she can't bring herself to actually utter the words.

"It has been fine so far it has just become a tad too insipid for my tastes. I want something more than fine, I want excitement… I want spice and flavor is that too much to ask?" She sounds as bored as her words suggest she is and behind her the bed shifts beneath his weight uneasily. She knows if she turns her head just so she will see him thinking, see the way his thin brows draw together when he isn't quite sure of something. She is so very tempted to do just that, but if she turns now the game will be over. Because what she doesn't see would make her rethink her request, that twitch of his lips… the way something dark brushes just below the surface of his expression.

"Do I have your permission your grace? To take you in the manner you suggest I should?" His tone is a purr that brushes like a feather down her spine and for a moment she is hesitant… a little voice chiming warnings in her head. It feels as if he is not asking permission but rather if she knows what she has asked for. But this is her favorite little darkelf, who doesn't have a malicious bone in his body and has never uttered a harsh word to her she reasons. Surely the danger now perfuming the air is imagined, not suffocating in its closeness as it appears. She articulates the words on a whim, an after thought… a casual joke even and nothing she can do will erase that single act in which she said yes.

His knees slide to either side of her shapely hips pressing against her exposed back deceptively warm. For a moment she expects his touch to be tender as it sweeps her hair over her slender shoulder. But there is no gentleness to be found in his quick hands as they cup her bountiful breasts with her nipples trapped between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. There is a cry in her throat that is louder and more surprised than she'd like but it is not for the way his hands squeeze and flick over her hardened nipples. Oh no for while that would be enough to bring a whimper from her lips it is his mouth at the bend of her neck that wracks her body with both pain and pleasure. It is a hungry thing, full of teeth and a licking tongue. Panic blooms in her panting chest, fighting with her mind as she reasons that he wouldn't dare break her delicate skin.

But there is no sign of him caring about marring her noble flesh as his nails scratch down her sides and over her sensitive inner thigh leaving raised red lines in their wake. He spreads them wide with a rough jerk before wetting his fingers against her most intimate part. If only she could find a word among all the other sounds trying to fight their way out of her but he pulls her face around to meet his. His mouth is on hers in an instant greedily kissing as his fingers set her nerves alight. She is squirming against him with fistfuls of blanket knotted in each hand because it is all she can do to keep from screaming ecstasy into his mouth. Just as the heat inside of her climbs to unbelievable heights his fingers withdraw and so do his lips. She growls in frustration, rubbing against the bulge pressing against her backside begging him to finish what he has started. She moves to crawl back onto the bed so that he may do just that but he rises with her… his hands tight about her waist as he spins her in place.

The look in his eyes scares her and adrenaline washes against her strained nerves anew. It makes her jump when he lifts her clear off the ground with hands cupping just under her shapely rear. She has no idea what he plans to do and without thinking she pitches forward clinging to his shoulders just as the head of his member teases against the moistness betwixt her legs. It is the only warning she is given before she is impaled upon it and her back arches from the sheer force of his thrust. The pace he sets is bruising, a wonderful agony played to the tune of flesh pounding into flesh. It takes everything she has just to hold on, every fiber of her body threatening to shake apart after each and every breath stealing thrust.

She feels herself tip over the edge, already teetering there from his earlier teasing. But as the screams tear from her throat and her nails bite into the skin of his back his own release doesn't arise. She lands on the bed unwilling to move and trembling with the last ripples of her euphoria radiating just under her skin. This reprieve however, is short lived as he is urging her onto her knees facing away from him. She isn't sure if she'll survive anymore of this, her knees already wanting to give out beneath her even as he kneels behind her. Yet she can't help but be thrilled at this new side of him wondering just how far he will take things and just how far she will let him go.

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"Well someone looks entirely too pleased with himself. Take it things went well with the Baroness' daughter?" Ziril doesn't really need an answer, the bounce in his fellow elf's step as he waltzes through the door is answer enough. But Vevos never misses an opportunity to gloat, especially if it allows him to spin a tale or two.

"She was singing like a lark for the most part. But I think she may have gotten more than she bargained for tonight… Would you believe she asked me to take her as I pleased?" It sounds amusing the way he mouths it as his elbows alight on the counter Ziril sits behind, careful not to upset the scattered papers and quills atop it. "If I could have gotten away with it I would have laughed the moment she said it. Still I think she'll think twice before asking such next time."

"If there is even a next time."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just go grab a bite and get some rest, you know she is going to want a report tomorrow evening," Ziril reminds him, shooing his clanmate further into the castle and hopefully away from causing more trouble.

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A groan and a tanned hand are the first signs of movement that stir from beneath the over sized pile of blankets heaped on the large if plain bed. Somewhere beneath them a sleepy imperial stretches, bumping into another equally sleepy form. One that hisses and curls further under the covers at the mere prospect of waking for the evening.

There is a knock on door followed by a less than enthused Ziril standing in the door frame. "Up you go you two, there are secrets to steal and people to woo," he says curtly before moving off to wake the others. It is a pattern that plays out every evening once the sun sets, when the castle begins to bustle with the undead after the living servants have gone home to their quaint little families.

Mallus is hard pressed to throw the covers off and rise from what is a comfortable if crowded bed. But he knows Ziril will not tell them again and there are far worse things to face here than the discomfort of a chilly floor on bare feet. A sentiment he is forced to relate to his bunkmate as the covers are snatched from his hands and tucked back around the grumpy darkelf.

"You heard him, up you go," he chides with a chuckle as the covers become the victim of a tug of war between the two. "Besides if you lay here there will be no one left for breakfast." The thought of going hungry rousts the slow to rise Dunmer begrudgingly, his stark white hair sticking every which way but straight. He looks like a frazzled owl who has tumbled from its perch.

"Yep I can certainly see why the ladies always ask for you. I mean even my cold heart's all a flutter." Mallus mocks in good humor, a large palm clasped over his naked chest. He begins to say something else only to end up laughing on a mouthful of feathers as Vevos tries to shove a pillow down his throat before heading for where they keep their day to day clothes.

Vevos throws on the first thing his hand lands on and belts it all into place with lethargic fingers. He hates the tediousness of clothing, having spent more than a lifetime taking it off and putting it back on. There are many things about their daily routine he despises but he keeps these complaints to himself as Mallus claps him on the back and the two exit their room. Around them the others fall into place, faces as unnaturally fair as his own from every corner of Tamriel. They are his siblings in this strange world of endless nights. And as the corridor swells so does the chatter, some relating stories of last night's conquests while others grumble about the work that lies ahead of them.

Regardless they all mount the stairs that will take them to the dining hall, vying for the best seats and the sweeter dishes. It would almost seem like any other large estate at meal time, fresh with the promise of the descending night. But as breakfast is brought in chained and heavily sedated Vevos is reminded of how unnatural his life here is... if life is what you could call it. Before him a droopy eyed Breton girl lays prone on the table. There are no plates, no knives or forks to speak of as the only cutlery needed for this meal lies in his mouth and presses against his tongue sharp as needles. He wonders if this time he'll be able to see a meal through without wanting to vomit.

It isn't just the fact this girl has no understanding of what is happening to her that turns his stomach even as he tilts her head back. It is the sound of the others feeding around him, that sickening sound of snapping jaws and slurps as gluttonous throats swallow over and over. He can feel the revulsion wash over him in a wave of nausea, it clogs his throat and earns a jeer from his right as another of his clanmates reads his hesitation as weakness. He is tempted… so very tempted to shove his fist right through the other vampire's blood smeared grin if only to stop the insufferable noise of his guffaw. This isn't how it should be he reasons, they are not animals gnawing over scraps. But now is not the time to let his temper best him, spats and fist fights are not tolerated and he has seen what becomes of those foolhardy enough to test the tolerance of their mistress.

He takes only enough to slake his thirst before rising from the table and his feasting clanmates. At the head of the hall a chair sits unoccupied and the sight does not surprise him, It isn't often that their mistress deigns herself to eat with her underlings. Yet he wonders if she did so more often what change it would have in the manners of those around him. Still all in all it doesn't matter and he walks hurriedly from the room actually looking forward to the rest of his day.

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On the castle's sprawling training grounds all manner of combat is taught to those with the aptitude to learn and there is something blissful in the way training leaves his mind wonderfully blank. It is one of the few times he can concentrate solely on the moment and not the future or the past. He sidesteps his sparring partner's rushed attack with ease and smacks the flat of his wooden blade against the Nord's off balance backside. Vevos knows this is not what these matches are for and that they are supposed to be mutually benefiting from the practice. But as the red flustered face of his opponent whirls indignantly around in another foolish charge he just can't bring himself to resist. Another sidestep, another smack to prove how out of his partner's league he is and their instructor is stepping in before things can reach their boiling point.

Vevos scoffs as the nord is dragged away and another takes his place. As long as it is an actual challenge then he couldn't care less who he faces. After all they are not permitted to maim each other in anyway and any blows to the face are met with the swiftest punishment. Their mistress is very keen on that rule, keeping all their faces free from scar and blemish. It makes sense given her plans, only a fraction of which are ever clear to the pawns she uses. If they are unseemly looking then they are of no use to her and are dismissed. Sent out into the world that would like nothing more than to see them burn to ashes.

"Keep your focus together neophyte," his opponent growls bringing his attention back to the match as he takes his preferred stance. The short blade in his hand is loose but ready as the man now crouching in front of him is one of the most versed fighters their mistress has in her employ. And Vevos knows the following hours of training are going to be torturous simply because he couldn't resist mocking his earlier opponent. But there are worse things than a few bruises from a wooden sword to be found within the castle's outer wall.

"You keep getting distracted… if I were a real hunter you wouldn't have a head anymore," chimes the man who just laid him flat on his back. He wonders how exactly that happened, never seeing the swift kick that knocked his feet from under him only recalling the shadow falling over him as the edge of the wooden sword pressed against his throat. He would argue but what would be the point when he knows those words to be true? It is annoying and his back does sting from the graceless landing but he has the good sense to keep his mouth shut as he is helped to his feet. What is worse is he knows his opponent is taking it easy on him, pulling blows where he could do more than just knock the Dunmer over.

He has an inkling as to why that is but says nothing, as the session ends and they all busy themselves with putting everything away before heading off to whatever task they have been set for the night. Most will be off to slip into some important figure's bed chamber, others will spend the night hunting for those who will not be missed. But not he, no he has a report to give and the more he thinks about it the more his stomach knots. He returns to his room briefly to wash and change into something more formal. Unlike earlier he takes great care in his appearance now, making sure every hair and buckle is in its proper place before heading to where he knows she is waiting.

Her quarters lie in the northernmost tower, and at most times the entire wing leading to it is off limits. No guard stands watch over those halls, no guard is needed. None of them are brave enough to cross the threshold without being invited first. He squares his shoulders as he mounts the stairs, and yet as he climbs his skin crawls with the urge to flee back the way he came. He doesn't know why this is, it is not his first audience with their mistress. And in all the times he has spoken to her or even entertained her she has never once shown him a shred of malice. However he does not need to experience it first hand to know what she is capable of. He has witnessed it with his own eyes on other occasions and knows what he has seen is only a sliver of what she can do.

His knuckles rap gently against the door to her study, the room from which she controls everything that goes on within her estate, and a casual "come in," beckons him forward.

The decor has changed since the last time he was summoned, not an uncommon occurrence but a curious one all the same. The walls have been repainted a calm emerald green and the rug matches down to the exact shade. This is not surprising to him, their mistress has an eye for detail that astounds even her fledglings, catching even the most minute details. There are paintings on the walls that aren't covered by book shelves, each of a different landscape and every single one done by her own hand.

She glances up from her writing just long enough to bid him sit, the room's only other furniture besides her desk and chair a chaise done in fabrics from Elsweyr. The rest of the castle's tapestries are also imported from that province but none of this matters to Vevos who does as he is told. Sitting only on the edge of the chaise as he nervously awaits his mistress' attention. It is as if she knows how uneasy he feels, drawing each moment out further just to see him fidget. It is only when she finally sets the final page aside to dry that she regards him fully and from the tightness of her rouged lips Vevos knows she is displeased. A realization that fills him with the utmost dread.


End file.
